


Empires Fall

by NerdInResidency



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (or the lack thereof), Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Existentialism, Fate & Destiny, Gen, Marauders Era (Harry Potter), The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, i just really like regulus as a concept ok, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25192903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdInResidency/pseuds/NerdInResidency
Summary: An exploration of fatalism (or, the life and times of Regulus Black)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	Empires Fall

Regulus Black is born at four-thirty in the afternoon, on the dot.

It really is the optimal time for a baby. No need to wake anyone up, or throw chaos into an otherwise pleasant morning. Not late enough to interrupt dinner parties or keep anyone awake at unreasonable hours. Why, you could treat a 4:30 baby as an afternoon outing— a pleasant little diversion from your daily routine that still leaves ample time for supper.

By all accounts, it’s an exceptionally smooth birth, especially in comparison to that of his brother, who, in perfect Sirius fashion, arrived kicking and screaming at 2:57 AM and remained inconsolable for a solid forty-five minutes. Regulus cries too, of course, but calms down almost as soon as he’s placed into his mother’s arms, and proceeds to sleep soundly for the next six hours. 

Though it won’t come to a head for over a decade, perhaps this is where the seeds of Walburga and Orion Black’s favoritism for their younger son are planted, to be steadily cultivated in future years by the repeated contrast between screaming matches and silent submission. Perhaps the pleasant first few moments of his life are what cement Regulus as the true heir to the House of Black, years before he will ever be named as such. Perhaps they are silent syllables of his first Unforgivable, and invisible strokes on the edges of his Dark Mark. Perhaps Sirius’ screams are what truly lights the cigarette Walburga will one day stub out over his place on the family tree. 

But wouldn’t that be unfair? If the mere circumstances of their births, and the uncontrolled actions of their newborn selves, were what sent the brothers Black on their vastly different trajectories through life, and eventual deaths? Then again, in the pureblood world, with all its rules and traditions and concerns with preserving family legacy, that often seems to be how life  _ works. _

**< ><><>**

Walburga Black had never been the most even-tempered of people. But Regulus never witnesses the full extent of her fury until he’s ten years old, when Sirius comes home for Christmas after his first term at Hogwarts.

The storm has been brewing for months, ever since, over an otherwise pleasant breakfast, a sleek brown owl darts into the windowless dining room through the kitchen door and drops a small envelope, neatly sealed with the instantly recognizable Hogwarts crest, directly into the fruit bowl. The letter itself is not unexpected— Hogwarts has been sending out letters to first years’ parents the morning after the sorting ceremony for as long as even Albus Dumbledore himself can remember. And indeed, it begins smoothly enough, with a cordial greeting to Mr. and Mrs. Black, and a statement of congratulations toward their son’s placement in the esteemed house of-

(It’s at this point in the sentence that Walburga almost drops the letter into her scrambled eggs).

The next week or so features a flurry of increasingly furious correspondence between Walburga and Dumbledore. But no matter how many times she calls him a muggle-loving charlatan and insists on her son’s birthright to the proud house of his forefathers, Dumbledore remains firm in his assertion of the Sorting Hat’s wisdom, and Walburga is left to stew in her own frustration without so much as getting a rise out of him. Even the much calmer, more formal set of letters from Orion, describing Sirius’ unique position as heir to such a powerful family and offering sizable donations to the school, fail to make a difference.

Sirius himself only sends one letter, delivered straight to Regulus’ bedroom to avoid the prying eyes of their parents. Though written on a full-sized piece of parchment, and containing the appropriate heading and practiced calligraphy of a formal letter, the body itself is only two sentences long, reading:  _ When mum kills me, make sure James Potter is invited to the funeral. Pretend not to notice the sack of dungbombs under his robes.  _ Below an immensely ostentatious signature, he’s also written,  _ P.S., I do think red compliments our skin tone much better than green. _

As it turns out, Walburga doesn’t kill him— though perhaps not for lack of trying. Initially, she’s cold, pressing her lips into a thin, disappointed line as soon as Sirius and a stern-looking Orion apparate into the drawing room. The tension is palpable enough to freeze Regulus’ fingers above the piano keys mid-measure, and he doesn’t even dare turn his head to get a full view of the scene. Walburga’s heels click menacingly against the hardwood floor as she approaches Sirius, and, in his peripheral vision, Regulus can just barely see her reaching out a jewelry-laden hand and letting her long fingernails graze Sirius’ cheek— and almost affectionate gesture, were it not for the overwhelming sense of hostility permeating the room. “You’ll be relieved to hear, I’m sure, that your father and I are considering Beauxbatons,” she says after a moment, in a tone as cool and sharp as an icicle. Sirius’ jaw clenches as Orion’s grip tightens on his arm. “It will still be quite a blow— we Blacks have a long history at Hogwarts. But certainly more suitable than  _ Gryffindor _ .”

Perhaps things could have stayed like that; perhaps they even  _ should  _ have. The cold is uncomfortable, of course, but not unfamiliar, and would have eventually thawed. Perhaps Sirius could’ve gone to Beauxbatons, and found a whole new set of friends to keep him sane. Or maybe Walburga and Orion could’ve made peace with their son being in Gryffindor, as long as he kept his grades up and his head down. Perhaps, if everyone had tread lightly, no one would have ended up cutting themselves on the broken ice.

But Sirius has never been particularly cautious. Instead of fixing his gaze on the floor and mumbling an apology, as Regulus might have, he matches his mother’s cool glare, and says, a smug smile playing at his lips, “Actually, I quite like Gryffindor.”

And thus commences the fire.

Walburga has shouted before, of course— she’ll raise her voice over anything from a broken vase to slightly overcooked chicken. But Regulus has never heard it go on for this long. She yells until her throat is raw and the shouts become screeches; until not even Sirius can continue to match her ferocity and resorts to striding away down random hallways in an attempt to ignore her, only for her to follow him, still screaming, calling him an ungrateful, bottom-feeding blood-traitor who ought to be ashamed he even dared touch the sacred name of Black.

But as the argument rages on in the distance, Regulus, ignoring the feeling of his father’s weighty gaze resting on his narrow shoulders, lets his fingers find the piano keys they were originally headed for, and continues practicing. The song isn’t loud enough to drown out the echoing shouts, nor is it really meant to— it simply adds a layer on top, as if to soften them, smoothing out the edges. And once Walburga has finally finished, once the yelling ceases to echo through the entire house and she returns, red-faced, to her favorite chaise lounge in the drawing room and hoarsely demands Kreacher to bring her a pot of tea, Regulus continues to play, and somehow, he can just barely hear the ghost of a shout behind each note.

Needless to say, Sirius spends almost the entire break shut in his bedroom. And in the coming year, when it’s Regulus’ turn to sit under the hat and be told his destiny, he does remember that shouting, and how it seemed to continue long after the voice creating it had gone dry. How the anger it was rooted in seemed to sink into the very foundations of the house, returning every once in a while when it got too cold or annoyed or just simply  _ bored _ . But even more so, he remembers the coolness of the piano keys beneath his fingers, and the glimmer of approval in his parents’ eyes once he finally finished the song.

“I hear I caused quite a stir with your brother last year,” the hat murmurs in his ear. It feels like a test.

Regulus stares straight ahead, emptying his mind as best as possible. He wants Slytherin, of course, as any self-respecting pureblood would. But it seems somehow disingenuous to ask for it directly, so he instead focuses on giving the hat as little information as possible, in the hopes that it will simply default to his parents’ house.

But the hat is apparently not willing to give up so easily, and soon enough it speaks again. “What do you  _ want _ in life, Regulus Black?” It sounds almost intrigued, as if Regulus poses an exciting challenge rather than being the uninteresting Slytherin shoo-in he’s aiming to be.

_ Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?  _ he thinks, somewhat taken aback.

“I can see  _ potential _ for many things in a person. But not all of them are equally likely to come to fruition.” Regulus doesn’t know how to respond to that, and so he doesn’t, attempting instead to picture nothing but the gray expanse of his bedroom wall. The hat holds out for a few more agonizing seconds, as if offering Regulus one final chance to surprise it, before letting out an almost disappointed huff. “Very well, then. You’ll be a perfect fit for Slytherin.”

**< ><><>**

At Black family dinner parties, no one pays nearly enough attention to the children, save for the half an hour or so when all the adults sit down and show off their darling little creations in their darling little dress robes, only to shoo them back off to the kitchen or the library or wherever else they can stay respectably out of sight afterward. It’s at one of these parties that thirteen-year-old Regulus, while hurrying down the hallway outside the drawing-room on his way to the loo, encounters his cousin, Bellatrix. At twenty-two, she most certainly counts as an adult, so Regulus keeps his head down and steps out of her way, assuming she won’t show any interest in him.

But instead of passing by without a second thought, Bellatrix stops and turns to look at him. Her gaze, as it moves slowly over his perfectly pressed dress robes and smoothly pulled back hair, feels almost predatory, like a wild cat picking out its prey. In order to stave off the urge to slink away, Regulus locks his eyes onto her shoes: an elegant pair of pointy-toed stilettos with heels that appear to be made of— or at least coated in— polished metal. Distantly, Regulus wonders if she can dance in them, and, if so, how fearful her partner must be of getting stepped on.

“You’re Regulus, yes?” she says once her gaze has traveled back up to his face. Now that she’s formally addressed him, Regulus knows he must force himself to meet her eyes, which are so dark he can barely make out the pupils. He nods, and her lips curve into a small smile that really looks more like a smirk. “You seem like a good boy,” she continues, “unlike your brother. A shame, really— he’s quite charming.”

Regulus doesn’t know how to reply to that, so he opts not to. Luckily, Bellatrix seems to take his silence as approval, and continues. “Must be lonely, not having a sibling you can relate to.” 

Though the words themselves seem conversational enough, there’s a pointedness to her tone that hints at some sort of deeper question within them, though Regulus isn’t quite sure how to interpret it. He elects to remain silent again, and her smile grows wider. She leans down to meet him at eye level, twin curtains of dark curls falling uncomfortably close to Regulus’ face. “ _ I’m _ never lonely,” she whispers, and it’s almost a hiss. “You want to know why?”

Just as Bellatrix starts to tug at the black glove covering her left forearm, and Regulus’ mind begins to race with something that can’t seem to choose between fear and excitement, a familiar voice calls his name, and he feels a firm hand clamp down on his shoulder. “Honestly, Reg,” Sirius chastises in a tone that’s only half-joking, “I’m starting to think you don’t know your way around your own house. I told you to meet me in the dining room, what, twenty minutes ago?”

Regulus feels contradictory urges to either sigh in relief or pull away in indignation, but resists them both, as Bellatrix is still there, her hand now frozen at the edge of her glove. Apparently unphased by the daggers she’s glaring at him, Sirius flashes a quick smile. “I hope you don’t mind,  _ cousin _ .” 

And despite the fact that she’s tall and terrifying and eight years Sirius’ senior, there’s something in his tone that forces Bellatrix off. Perhaps she recognizes what is, at least in that moment, a losing battle— Regulus on his own is easy prey, but strong-willed Sirius would take a lot more tact. And so she stands back up, still glaring, with pursed lips. “Not at all,  _ cousin _ .”

With that, Sirius jerks Regulus around and begins pushing him down the hallway. “If she tries that again,” he murmurs, fingernails still digging into Regulus’ shoulder, “make an excuse and run off. She’ll lose interest soon enough.”

“She just wanted to-” Regulus argues.

Sirius cuts him off. “She  _ wants _ to lead you down the same path she’s gone down.” 

They’ve reached the dining room now, and Sirius has just placed his hand on the doorknob when Regulus finally manages to wriggle free of his grip and whip around, blocking the door. “What, you’d rather I be dragged down your  _ ‘path’ _ instead?”

Sirius goes still for a moment— Regulus must’ve managed to strike a nerve— but recovers quickly, replacing any weakness in his expression with cold determination. His reply comes through gritted teeth. “As a matter of fact, I would.”

**< ><><>**

Dinner at 12 Grimmauld Place is never exactly a pleasant experience.

The food itself is delicious, of course— house-elf cooking never fails to delight. The smell of tonight’s apple-garnished pork tenderloin is nearly enough to make Regulus salivate as soon as he steps through the doorway. But instead of rushing to his impeccably set place at the table, he hesitates, fists balled at his sides and knuckles blanched even whiter than the rest of his hands, attempting to brace himself for what’s to come.

Because no matter how delicious the food or exquisite the embroidery on the tablecloth, any enjoyment one could glean from a Black family dinner is sucked out by the  _ people _ . Typically, Regulus manages to skirt around the tension, dutifully keeping his head down such that any insults flung across the mahogany table will fly right over him. But tonight,  _ he’ll _ be the one at the center of it. And all because he can’t read the future out of nonsense jumbles of numbers.

He takes a deep breath, allowing his expression to fall into one of practiced neutrality. But just before taking a fateful step forward, he feels a warm hand settle into the small of his back. He doesn’t have to look to know who it is, but does anyway, noting the determination etched into Sirius’ angular face. It’s the same expression he wore during their exchange on the platform after the train ride home, during which it had taken Sirius about ten seconds to realize something was wrong, and maybe fifteen more to prod his way into a reluctant explanation. 

In the moment, it had been secretly comforting for Regulus to know that someone else understood his apprehension. But now, that solace twists into roiling doubt in his stomach, and he curses himself for revealing such vulnerability.  _ He’s probably enjoying this _ , he tells himself,  _ gloating at the prospect of finally seeing me torn down to his level. _ He steps forward quickly, trying to ignore the cold spot left behind in the absence of Sirius’ hand, and makes the rest of the journey to the table alone, heart still racing with fear conveniently dressed up as anger.

Orion and Walburga are already there, standing behind their respective chairs with statuesque posture. Between Walburga’s high-collared evening gown and Orion’s many-layered dress robes, they look awfully formal for a casual dinner. Then again, nothing in the Black household is ever truly casual, and Sirius and Regulus are equally overdressed, with silk dress robes and, at least in Regulus’ case, carefully styled hair. 

Sirius crosses the room with his typical confident swagger to join them at the table. It, too, is overly ostentatious; although it’s often enlarged for dinner parties, and could easily be shrunk down to a reasonable size for a family of four, it’s usually kept long enough for at least twice that, leaving its four regular users to crowd around one end of it in, as Sirius often complains, “a disgustingly asymmetrical fashion.” During many an uncomfortable lapse in mealtime conversation, Regulus has found himself wondering how they fell into such a formation, and why they continue to maintain it. Does Orion  _ like _ sitting at the head of a near-empty table, staring down the row of vacant seats and missing placemats? Does Walburga enjoy being directly across from Sirius, in the perfect position to shoot him as many withering glares as necessary?

(Someday, Regulus will realize how lucky he is to have his current spot at Sirius’ right— the side further from the head of the table. As the asymmetrical add-on to the trio beside him, it’s easy to avoid being caught in the crossfire of their fights. He can even keep a bit of distance from the choking sense of obligation that seems to permeate the whole affair. But today, he has other things to worry about).

As is customary, Orion sits first, and the other three follow in near-perfect unison. After about a minute of listening to silverware clink against china plates, Sirius clears his throat. “Well, I’ve had a wonderful semester, thank you for asking.”

Walburga presses her lips into a thin smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, as if accepting a gift she intends to dispose of as soon as the giver has left her sight. “Still prancing around with the Potter boy, I expect? And those half-bloods?”

“Oh, yes, plenty of prancing. I’m practically an expert. If only there was an OWL for it,” Sirius jokes, his smug smile and cheery tone dripping with mock pleasantry. “Why do you ask, mother? Are you worried blood status may be contagious?”

Before a swiftly-reddening Walburga can craft a reply, Orion finishes cutting his pork and sets the knife down with a loud thump. “Regulus, how was your term?”

Though the abruptness of his gruff voice indicates that the question is borne more out of a desire to avoid the oncoming argument than any genuine interest, Regulus recognizes this as his opening and swallows hard. _Better face it now than have them find out on their own._ But before he can do so, Sirius pipes up again, his false pleasantries as intentionally annoying as ever. “I’m considering taking muggle studies next year.”

Walburga’s fingers clench around the delicate neck of her wineglass so suddenly that Regulus barely manages to keep himself from flinching in expectation of it shattering. “Is that so?” she says, her voice ice cold but surprisingly measured in comparison to her body language, “and what course would you be dropping to accommodate _muggle studies_?”

Sirius shrugs with a downright infuriating degree of elegant nonchalance. “Ancient Runes, I think,” he says lightly, letting a chunk of meat hang disregarded on his fork while he cocks his head as if the suggestion is truly spontaneous rather than carefully chosen to cause as much agitation as possible. “I mean, what are they really for, anyway? Not like I’ll stumble across any in the  _ Prophet _ .”

White-hot animosity has already begun to melt through the thin facade of pleasantry in Walburga’s reply. “Your great grandfather was a runic scholar,” 

“And my friend Remus’ mum is a muggle. Personally, I consider her a bit more relevant to my life at the moment.” If arrogant, Sirius’ tone remains remarkably calm and reasonable, not seeming to even break a sweat under the full force of Walburga’s bitter glare and Orion’s dull frustration.

In one last attempt to maintain at least the illusion of civility, Walburga stretches her lips into a tight line that comes across as more of a grimace than a smile “Must you always spit in the face of your heritage?”

“Perhaps it could use a good spitting.”

Walburga’s hand comes down hard on the table, producing a loud  _ slap _ that causes a few drops of water to slosh out of Regulus’ glass. Sirius, however, remains unphased, still staring smugly into his mother’s eyes as she jumps to her feet and leans over the table to glare down at him with a fury that blossoms, red-hot, across her entire face and neck. “Sirius Orion Black!” she snaps, “you enjoy the  _ privilege _ of belonging to the most honorable family in all of wizarding Britain, and with that honor comes certain  _ expectations _ that you may not simply blow off!”

Instead of rising to meet her, Sirius remains comfortable in his seat, looking markedly unimpressed at her intimidation attempts. “And ‘thou shalt not take muggle studies’ is one of those expectations?”

“It is  _ expected  _ that your transcripts reflect both the quality and values of your upbringing!”

And there it is. Regulus realizes what’s coming mere moments before it happens.  _ It's all about perspective, Reg,  _ Sirius has told him once, after a somewhat similar scenario involving a stained blouse,  _ shift the perspective and you’ve got whatever reaction you want.  _ It’s almost like watching a dance, where, after a series of steps too complicated for the mesmerized audience to entirely follow, it all culminates into one final pirouette. A satisfied smile plays at the corners of Sirius’ lips, he lets his sly gaze drift over to Regulus as he savors a moment that feels both too long and not long enough. As he finally turns back to Walburga, that last ballerina bends her elegant legs in preparation for a perfect relev é.

The words tumble from Sirius’ lips as naturally as half-submerged leaves down a waterfall. The ballerina outstretches her arms, a spotlight honing in on her poised body, and lifts herself up on a pointed foot. “Regulus is failing Arithmancy.”

And the crowd goes wild.

For a single agonizing moment, Walburga jerks her head sharply in Regulus’ direction. Under her furious glare, he sucks a short breath in through his nostrils and holds his gaze at the taught, pale skin of her forehead, knowing he won’t be able to speak if he looks into her eyes. “I-”

But by the time he manages to get out a single word of the explanation he painstakingly muttered over and over to himself on the train, she’s already turned back to Sirius. By now, she’s leaning so far over the table that her face is inches from his, and the large jewel on her necklace faces imminent danger of dipping down into his water glass. “And yet you’ll  _ still _ never be half the son he is!”

“And  _ you’ll  _ never be half the mother he deserves!” Sirius hisses, finally allowing his tone to match hers in intensity. With that, he kicks his chair back and storms out of the dining room with quick, heavy footsteps that remain audible his entire way upstairs. It’s only after hearing the slam of a door that seems to shake the entire house, followed by a few seconds of silence, that Walburga lowers herself back down into her chair, chest heaving and face still red enough to show through her foundation.

Dinner drags on for another half hour in near-silence, interrupted only by the harsh clang of Walburga’s fork as she plunges it so deeply into each piece of meat that it leaves scratches in the china plate. Orion occasionally winces at the loudest ones, but says nothing, and Regulus is more than happy to follow his lead.

Once the dreadful affair finally drags itself to a conclusion, Regulus expects Sirius to be shut up in his bedroom, probably scribbling angry letters to his Gryffindor friends onto pieces of parchment that will never actually be sent anywhere. But instead, he’s sitting, knees bent, against the short stretch of wall between their two bedroom doors, with his tie loose and long hair seeming to hang even more freely than usual around his collar **.** When Regulus steps onto the landing, Sirius’ eyes are already on him, as if he’s been waiting. “You owe me one.”

Regulus almost gives in. After all, he  _ is _ relieved; there will likely be a light chastisement when the official report cards arrive, but nothing like what it would’ve— or perhaps even  _ should’ve _ — been. Sirius  _ does _ deserve the credit for that. But to grant it would be to admit an occasional value in betrayal— something Regulus has been raised specifically to condemn. So he looks away, fixing his gaze pointedly at the opposite wall, and lifts his chin with all the cool ambivalence that years of etiquette training have drilled into him. “What, because your desire for attention just so happened to align with my personal interests for once?”

Sirius is silent for a moment, and Regulus has to dig his fingernails into his palms to keep himself from turning to gauge his expression.  _ Shock, perhaps? A hint of betrayal? _

But when he finally does speak, it’s not in the tender, wounded tone that Regulus belatedly realizes he was expecting. Rather, the only discernible emotion in Sirius’ words is bitter disappointment. “You’re on your own next time.”

**< ><><>**

Regulus has never been a leader.

That’s always been Sirius’ job, and he performs it flawlessly. Though the two are nearly identical, from their exquisite bone structures to the way their jaws clench when they’re trying to swallow an emotion **,** Sirius has always been the undoubtedly more attractive of the two. And it’s not just looks— there’s something almost magnetic in the way he carries himself. Despite his general disdain for pureblood culture and politics, Sirius somehow manages to master the perfect blend of charisma and enigma that allows him to excel in it. Once, at an exceptionally memorable holiday party, he manages to convince Lucius Malfoy, a boy half a decade his senior, that the customary Black method of wooing a girl is to write her name across your chest and dramatically tear your shirt off to reveal it to both her and her father. For a solid year afterward, all of their cousins— save for a red-cheeked Narcissa— refer to him as “Imperius Black” and claim he could coax a niffler out of a treasure chest without ever touching a wand.

Sirius is, in short, a natural center of attention. This rings especially true when it comes to Orion and Walburga, in all the worst ways— some of which Sirius himself seems not to have entirely grasped. For all his whining about Regulus being constantly showered with praise, he always overlooks the fact that none of that praise is ever actually _about_ Regulus. When Walburga spends an entire Christmas break repeatedly commending Regulus on the neatness of his hair, her side-eyed gaze never fails to make clear that she doesn’t _actually_ find his devout use of a comb noteworthy, but rather Sirius’ lack thereof. Regulus’ first time living alone with his parents, during Sirius’ first semester at Hogwarts, is possibly the quietest four months Grimmauld Place sees in decades, and not only in terms of criticism, but praise as well. After all, criticism and praise respond to _deviations_ from the norm— in a perfect world, both would be out of place.

When Kreacher informs fourteen-year-old Regulus one summer afternoon that he’s wanted in the garden, he expects a similar situation. Perhaps Sirius has charmed all the tulips to sing obscene parodies of nursery rhymes again, and Walburga wants to make a point of how a _sensible_ boy like Regulus would be quietly occupying himself in his bedroom instead of finding amusement in childish tricks. He picks up his pace a bit at the thought— as empty as he knows the words to be, Regulus has always taken a secret satisfaction in his parents’ praise, perhaps due to it being one of the few things he comes by naturally in life that Sirius doesn’t.

However, upon arriving at the cluster of rose bushes near the edge of the grounds, Regulus is surprised to find Sirius absent from the picture. Instead, he’s greeted only by Walburga— overdressed as always as she perches in a wrought iron chair beside a perfectly symmetrical bush of deep burgundy roses— and Orion, who stands a few feet away, surveying the nearby flora with an air of haughty stoicism. “Darling,” Walburga greets, her lips curving into a warm but oddly unsettling smile.

Regulus clasps his hands neatly behind his back and dips his head in greeting. “You summoned me?”

“I did.” She beckons him closer with jewelry-laden fingers. “It has come to the attention of your father and I that your brother may someday prove himself… unfit for the title of  _ heir _ .”

Though uncomfortable, the knot that forms in Regulus’ stomach is not unexpected. “Is that so?” he replies mildly, though he knows it isn’t. _Unfit_ , though carefully chosen, is a blatantly inaccurate term; Sirius, with his striking looks, impeccable etiquette training, and natural charm makes for a perfect heir, especially in comparison to his reserved, somber younger brother. But that’s exactly the problem. Sirius is _too_ confident, _too_ independent— too unwilling to sacrifice personal liberty for the sake of tradition. The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is many things, but inconsistent has never been one of them.

“Indeed,” she says, an astute glimmer in her eyes, “You, on the other hand, have always been more… perceptive to some of the more important ideas in society. The bigger picture, so to speak.” She turns her head toward the rosebush beside her and cups her fingers around the base of a nearby flower. “Less caught up in your own ego,” she continues, tilting her chin to stare down into the dark folds of the petals.

Regulus’ lips curve into a small smirk at that last bit, but Walburga is too busy running a careful fingertip along one of the rose’s thorns to notice. Only once the silence has elapsed just long enough for Regulus’ eyes to begin wandering does she turn back to him, flashing another disconcertingly sweet smile. “Just something to keep in mind”

Regulus dips his head in another respectful nod, this one feeling much more solemn than the last. “Of course. Will that be all?”

“For now. Except-” Regulus freezes in the act of turning away, like a baby bird pulled mid-leap back into its nest “-a careless eye could pass right over you in those plain robes. Come.” As Regulus approaches, she snaps the rose and a few inches of its stem off of the bush with a jarring matter-of-factness. Lifting her wand, she conjures a little silver pin and beckons Regulus closer until she’s able to reach his lapel. 

As she slides the pin through the fabric and stabs it neatly into the stem of the rose, her heavy perfume, combined with the magically-enhanced scent of the surrounding bushes, becomes stifling in the prolonged exposure. There’s also something off-putting about her face at such proximity, where every wrinkle and pore seems more enhanced than concealed by the makeup caked on top of it, and her dark eyes bore into Regulus almost hungrily. After only a few moments, it grows so unbearable that Regulus is forced to tilt his chin away and look at his father instead.

Orion has barely moved throughout the entire exchange, maintaining the same neutral, somewhat detached expression despite the weight of the conversation. He, too, is now inspecting one of the roses, with his head turned in such a way that reveals the sturdy jawline he’s passed on to his sons. Though Regulus can hear a soft breeze whispering through the nearby bushes and feel it on the back of his neck, not a single strand of his father’s dark hair seems to budge from its slicked-back state, and his robes look just as pristine and unwrinkled as they had at breakfast that morning. When he lifts a hand to brush it along the edge of the rose petals, the accompanying cufflink gleams in the midafternoon sunlight, and though Regulus is too far away to see the family crest etched into it, he is acutely aware of its presence.

With the rose finally straightened to her satisfaction, Walburga draws Regulus out of his thoughts with a sharp pat on the chest before leaning back into her original position in the chair. He turns away quickly, remembering himself, and begins making his way dutifully down the flagstone path toward the manor. As he walks, he twists the rose’s stem between his fingers and thinks of the Sorting Hat’s little voice prescribing his future, and Sirius’ arrogant smile as he purposefully steps into the trajectory of Walburga’s anger, and finds that he can’t actually recall a single instance of his  _ own _ actions directly moving him up in his parents’ favor. Perhaps, he thinks, succeeding in high society is less about the things you  _ do  _ and more about the ones you  _ don’t _ . He wonders if it’s always been like that; if the entire storied lineage of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black is built on the backs of men trying desperately to keep their heads down.

With a sharp inhale, Regulus draws the scent of the rose up into his nostrils and realizes how men like his father are made. 

**< ><><>**

Regulus doesn’t know why he starts collecting them.

The first one catches his eye from all the way across the drawing room. Orion and Walburga have just settled into their morning routine of criticizing  _ The Daily Prophet _ , with him sitting stiff-backed on the couch with the paper in question held a respectable arm’s distance away, and her hovering over his shoulder, thin lips pursed. “Reporting really has gone to shit as of late,” she laments, just as she had the previous morning and the one before that. After Orion has sufficiently hummed his agreement, she continues on cue. “I mean, they might as well just write about  _ muggles  _ at this point, if they’re going to display such an obvious bias toward them.”

It’s at this point that Regulus, like clockwork, is to glance up from the Arithmancy textbook he’s spent the last forty minutes attempting to derive some semblance of meaning from and make an educated-sounding remark in agreement with his mother. But this time, unlike the countless previous days where he has moved through this routine without a hitch, he hardly manages to complete the first step before freezing, his gaze caught on the front of the newspaper in Orion’s hands.

The image takes up nearly a quarter of the page, squishing all of the other pictures and blocks of text into awkward, unimportant corners. The accompanying headline is also quite large, but Regulus hardly notices it, his eyes instead glued on the pale face depicted below it. Even from across the room, it has a sort of inscrutable allure, to the point that Regulus wonders if there’s some sort of spell on it beyond the typical ones on a magical photograph. “That’s him, isn’t it? The Dark Lord?”

Orion snaps the paper closed and shuffles it around so that he and Walburga can get a proper view of its cover. He nods in affirmation as Walburga lets out a short sniff. “Not exactly a handsome fellow, is he?” she remarks, her eyes narrowed in critical contemplation as she gazes down at the photograph, “Though I must say I don’t disagree with his principles— at least not underneath all that senseless fear-mongering.”

After not more than thirty seconds of the page being turned, Regulus finds himself discarding the needlessly dense textbook and crossing the room to get a second look. The picture is oddly grainy up close— a rarity in wizard photographs, as any imperfection in the original image typically disappears once it is charmed to life. The effectiveness of such charms, however, is constrained by the familiarity of the caster with its subject, making an unpolished picture a clear indicator of mystery in whomever it depicts. 

And indeed, this one gives only a glimpse of its subject— a scant few seconds of a pale face with narrowed eyes, followed by a quick swish of black robes as the figure turns around and stalks away down what appears to be a shadowy alleyway. Walburga’s assessment of his looks, though apt, seems somewhat surface-level; while it’s clear even in such a grainy image that his features lack the definition commonly associated with attractiveness, there’s something else about them that can’t quite be written off, as if the ghost of a handsomer man lurks beneath those sunken cheeks. And regardless of its lack of conventional beauty, there’s a certain allure to that face— a sense of power in those dark eyes that awakens some deep-seated hunger in the pit of Regulus’ stomach.  _ That’s the kind of power, _ he thinks, _ that could drive a man mad. _

Similarly to their son, Walburga and Orion dwell on the image a few moments longer than necessary, as if they, too, feel its pull. But soon enough, Orion turns the page, returning to some story he’d been reading about gnome infestations in Greenwich, and the spell, at least for them, is broken.

But not for Regulus.

No, that face sticks in his mind, morphing somehow from an expression of enigmatic smugness to an almost inviting one. That night, he closes his eyes with the intention of going to sleep, only to find the image still there, as if etched into the backs of his eyelids. It isn’t long before he finds himself rummaging through the trash can in the kitchen, the tile floor hard against his bony knees. Once he finds the discarded newspaper, he snatches it out of the bin and unfolds it with a hungry fervor.

Typically, the movement of pictures in the  _ Prophet  _ is rudimentary at best— most are simply endless loops of the ten seconds surrounding when a given picture was taken, sometimes with a few creative liberties. They certainly don’t carry the level of personality and autonomy imbued into your average magical painting, as the charms necessary for that would be far too tedious and expensive on a large scale. And yet, as Regulus sinks down to sit on his heels and hunches over the wrinkled paper, he swears he sees that pale face wink at him.

Startled, he looks away. The kitchen is so still and quiet it could be frozen in time, were it not for the blood rushing in Regulus’ ears to the relentless pace of his own pulse. With every passing moment, the paper seems to grow heavier in his lap, and he can sense it waiting for him, equal parts patient and sinister, like a cat stationed outside the hiding place of its prey. It isn’t long before his gaze starts to creep back towards it.

And there it is, that blur of dark robes and eyes like uncut diamonds. The scrape of Regulus’ wand tip along the edge of the image as he frees it from the otherwise uninteresting paper feels as inevitable as a young bird discovering its natural instinct to fly. Though he does manage to tear his eyes away while ascending the stairs to his bedroom, he’s still acutely aware of the thin slip of paper clutched at his side.

At first, he places it on his desk, still not entirely sure why he has it in the first place. But it feels  _ wrong _ somehow to just leave it lying there on top of a charms textbook.  _ Is that the respect you show the Dark Lord? _ the picture seems to demand, with dark eyes gleaming **.** Regulus snatches it back up and looks wildly around the room before his eyes land on the blank patch of wall between his headboard and the family crest painted above it. 

Though it’s not a particularly large section of the wall, it seems to hold some sort of inherent importance. Regulus positions the picture squarely in the center of it, such that the bottom tip of the crest above points like an arrow directly down at the Dark Lord’s pale face. This also happens to be right above Regulus’ pillow, making that flash of pale skin and billowing robes, albeit upside-down, the last thing he sees before closing his eyes that night.

It’s nearly a month until he finds another, and two more weeks before the third. But they quickly increase in frequency; fear, it seems, makes papers sell faster than love potions on Valentine’s day, and the  _ Prophet  _ proves itself happy to oblige. And thus it becomes a sort of collection— an ever-spreading web of pictures engulfing the previously blank portion of his bedroom wall. The newer pictures are much clearer than that initial one, and seem to only get more so as their number grows— the Dark Lord, it seems, has been moving out of the shadows. Sometimes, Regulus can’t look at them for more than a few seconds before feeling something odd and sickly well up in his stomach, some strange amalgamation of both longing and trepidation that brings on sudden bouts of nausea. But other times, he can stare at it for hours, entranced, letting that sense of sick, gluttonous power fill him up like a promise.  _ That’s a man,  _ Regulus thinks one morning, after waking up to find his gaze already trained on the sinister collage,  _ who knows where he’s going. _

**< ><><>**

The next time Bellatrix makes her move, Regulus is ready.

He’s sixteen now, nearing the end of his first full summer as Orion and Walburga Black’s one and only son, and still rather small and skinny for his age but assertive enough that he seems less so. Indeed, Regulus has learned to play the part of heir almost flawlessly; while he may not have the natural charm of Sirius’ easy charisma at his disposal, he’s learned to dress up his more stoic, calculating demeanor as an aloofness that status-hungry purebloods readily devour. This time, when Bellatrix pulls him aside after dinner and asks in a sultry croon if he’s interested in changing the world, he knows exactly what’s coming, and quickly pushes away any bygone instinct to avert his eyes. As they exit the dining room, he swears he sees Orion cast an approving glance in his direction. 

Bellatrix’s heels click loudly against the flagstones as she escorts him through the garden, finally stopping beside an ancient-looking pear tree with branches spelled to grow in perfect symmetry. The light of a nearby torch flickers in her dark eyes as she pulls one long, loose dress sleeve up to her elbow.

And there it is. The pale skin surrounding it glows in the firelight, and the snake twists its elegant body tighter around the skull, almost as if to show off. “Pretty, isn’t it?” she says, and Regulus isn’t sure about that, but it’s certainly eye-catching, and that seems to be enough. When she drops her sleeve back down, his eyes linger on her forearm as the image cements itself into his memory. Taking this as a positive reaction, Bellatrix’s smile becomes conspiratorial as she leans in to whisper, with a short giggle, “He’ll like you, I think.”

**< ><><>**

Regulus doesn’t think he ever truly understood how toxic Grimmauld Place was for Sirius until he saw him free of it. 

Even now, over a full year after his running away, the differences are noticeable. His hair looks somehow fuller, and hangs to about midway down his neck— his favorite length, which Walburga always despised for its tendency toward unruliness. His face, though still home to the fashionable array of clean lines and sharp angles prescribed by his lineage, seems a little less gaunt than it used to appear in Grimmauld Place’s shadowy corridors, and there’s a newfound warmth behind the fairness of his skin.

He’s currently parading down the hallway with his unruly Gryffindor posse— probably on their way to dinner— with his lips stretched into an easy grin. Regulus watches as he leans over and flicks a lock of hair out of the eyes of Remus Lupin, murmuring something in the process that causes Lupin to shove a sharp elbow into his side, which only seems to spread Sirius’ smile wider. It’s juvenile, honestly; Regulus has never understood how his brother manages to be taken so seriously while remaining so openly childish. 

He doesn’t realize he’s staring until they make accidental eye contact. 

Regulus averts his eyes quickly, but knows it’s too late. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Sirius mutter some sort of excuse in James Potter’s ear before breaking away from the group and beginning to wade toward Regulus through the throng of students filling the hallway. Regulus picks up his pace, careful to maintain a sense of purpose rather than panic in his haste. Staying close to the wall, he turns quickly into the first doorway he comes upon, and soon finds himself hurrying up the narrow flight of stone stairs leading up to the Astronomy Tower.

A rush of cool air hits him as soon as he reaches the top of the stairs, and he pulls his robes a little tighter around himself as he makes his way to the furthest edge of the circular space. As autumn melds gently into winter, the sun has begun to set earlier in the day, and by now it has already done so, leaving the sky black and limitless save for a sliver of moon and the scattered pinpoints of stars. Regulus rests his elbows on the railing surrounding the tower and lets his hands hang, clasped, over the darkness-obscured grounds below as he ponders how the sky always looks so much bigger without a sun in it. Just when he thinks he might’ve actually managed to shake his brother, he hears even, confident footsteps coming up the stairs, and, soon enough, Sirius arrives, assuming a similar position to Regulus’ a few feet further along the railing.

He’s silent for a moment, simply staring off into the star-speckled sky. It’s a type of beauty one doesn’t find in London, where the muggles and their electric lights have drowned out most of the stars. Regulus finds himself wondering if they look like this at the Potter house as well— he knows it’s somewhere in the country— and if Sirius ever lies in the garden and gazes up at them, letting the distant chirping of crickets lull his thoughts to a pleasant standstill. Perhaps those stars remind him of Hogwarts— or maybe even vice versa.

When he finally does speak, it’s in a low, uncharacteristically careful voice. “I’ve heard rumors about you.” His eyes flick, just for a moment, to Regulus’ left forearm, which is conveniently hidden under the loose sleeves of his robes.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you,” Regulus counters, more as a formality than out of any actual attempt to prevent conversation.

“And  _ I’m  _ not supposed to exist. But here we are.”

Regulus looks down at his hands, pale against the dark backdrop of the far-off ground below the tower. “They aren’t true,” he says finally, somehow equal parts disappointed and relieved to say the words out loud. He watches Sirius’ shoulders relax just a hair in his peripheral vision, though the tension returns almost immediately once Regulus clarifies his statement. “Not  _ those  _ ones, at least. Not yet.”

“ _ Yet? _ ”

A sudden bitterness wells up in Regulus’ throat, though he’s not quite sure of the source of it. “Not all of us can be reckless, self-serving  _ Gryffindors _ like you,” he scoffs, finally turning his head to give Sirius his full attention. 

Sirius whips around as well, wavy hair bouncing with the sudden movement. “You think  _ this _ isn’t reckless?” Perhaps unintentionally, his gesture on  _ “this” _ is vague, seeming to point towards Regulus as a whole more than the particular forearm in question. Something about that elicits a twinge of discomfort in Regulus, suddenly making  _ him _ the one wanting to reaffirm that “yet.”

But that, of course, would be silly. Because  _ yet  _ is just semantics— a temporary placeholder before a foregone conclusion. While there may not technically be a  _ this  _ now, there might as well be. There’s certainly something off-putting about that idea— some odd destruction of an illusion of liminal space that Regulus hadn’t realized he was hiding behind— but he manages to push it aside, allowing the familiar coolness of disdain to smother any secret wavering. “Grow up, Sirius. Someone has to carry on our legacy and you’ve made it very clear that it is  _ not _ going to be you.”

Typically, peers shrink away from statements given in that tone, especially from the likes of Regulus Black. There’s nothing Slytherins hate more than condescension, and Regulus has the exploitation of that weakness down to a science— half the people in his common room will do anything to avoid being looked down upon by a passably handsome, distinctly pureblood beneficiary of greatness like him. But Sirius, Gryffindor as always, only lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Legacy.” He turns back towards the balcony, gazing out once again at the endless expanse of sky. “Tell me, how much of that ‘tradition’ and ‘legacy’ we were taught to suffocate ourselves with only exists because no one bothers to change it?” His tone is bitter, no doubt concocted behind fake smiles and stiff nods at years of pompous dinner parties. “Shouldn’t things be allowed to  _ end _ ?”

Regulus raises his eyebrows, returning to his own initial position at the railing. “Just because  _ you’d  _ rather tear the world down rather than face your own inadequacies in the existing one-“

“This has nothing to do with  _ me _ !” Sirius interrupts, swiveling back around to face Regulus.  _ Now  _ he’s finally jumped the gap between ice and fire, his words alight with white-hot anger. This has always been their game— last one to break wins, and Regulus has just struck gold. 

But instead of relishing the victory, he lets out a short, bitter exhale in place of a laugh and keeps his eyes glued on the dark silhouettes of distant trees against the starry sky. “That would be a first.”

“You know what? Fine.” Sirius slams his hand down hard against the railing, creating a vibration strong enough for Regulus to feel in his own palms. “Good night, Regulus. I’m sorry you let a deranged old woman and a singing hat tell you who you are.” 

With that, he pivots on his heels, robes fluttering, and stalks away toward the entrance to the tower. “Isn’t that what you did?” Regulus calls after him, but there’s no reply.

**< ><><>**

Regulus has always been taught to see beauty in power.

His first Unforgivable is  _ imperio _ , which, all things considered, is quite fortunate in comparison to the alternatives. It happens barely a month into his official joining of the Dark Lord’s ranks, once he’s safely trace-free and home for the summer before his last year at Hogwarts. He’s out with Bellatrix and Yaxley, doing some sort of reconnaissance in muggle London (as a recent adopter of the Cause, no one tells him much), when Bella catches sight of a heavily bejeweled necklace in a shop window, and drags her two companions inside, promising only a slight detour.

The shop is thankfully empty, save for the old man behind the counter. He’s friendly, with smile lines etched into his skin that deepen when the trio enters the store. “I can take anything out of its case, if you’d like to see it up close,” he offers, gesturing to the many jewelry displays lining the walls.

Bellatrix purses her lips, gazing at him with unapologetic disdain. Her wand slides out of the sleeve of her dress and into her hand, and she’s just about to raise it when Yaxley shoots his own hand out to hold it still. “Are you sure that’s the most advisable choice at the moment?” he hisses.

Bellatrix’s fingers tighten around her wand, and, for a moment, Regulus fears she’s going to hex Yaxley for his attempt to contradict her. He jerks his head down, pretending to be engrossed in a nearby display of diamond-encrusted watches, lest he be pulled into whatever duel might ensue.

But when Bellatrix’s voice finally cuts through the tension, the words are soft and sickly sweet, just loud enough for Regulus to hear. “Good idea. We really ought to give Regulus a try, don’t you think?”

Regulus quickly looks up from the watch case, his chest tightening. As Bellatrix turns toward him, her head cocked, it’s all he can to not to cringe away from her scrutinizing gaze. “It’s as good a time as any to learn,” she adds. Her lips curve into a not-at-all-comforting smile. “What do you say, Reggie? Want to treat your favorite cousin to a pretty necklace?”

Regulus knows what that means, and knows how long it’s been coming, but somehow still feels bile rising in his throat. His Dark Mark is still fresh enough to burn on his arm, and he can almost feel the snakes twisting and coiling on his skin. Instead of giving in to the near-overwhelming impulse to apparate away, however, he forces his expression to match hers, and slides his own wand out of his pocket. “Gladly.”

Bellatrix turns back toward the confused-looking shopkeeper. “Well, you know the spell,” she prompts.

And he does know the spell. He’s said it before in practice, though never with a wand, of course. Six syllables, so simple yet so powerful— six syllables to end a life. To send years of joy and pain and everything in between into the ether. He stares the muggle down, trying to look  _ through _ him, pushing away thoughts of laughter and wives and children, raises his wand, takes a deep breath…

And takes a side door.

“ _ Imperio _ ,” he whispers. The tip of his wand glows yellow for a moment, and, almost instantly, the shopkeeper’s shoulders slump in relaxation, and his eyes take on a vacant, dreamlike quality. Regulus clears his throat. “My companion would like the necklace in the window.”

The man nods and, head swaying, moseys his way over to the window display. Once he has retrieved the necklace, he approaches Bellatrix, holding it up, and she turns around to let him fasten it around her neck. Now facing Regulus, she raises her thin eyebrows in scrutiny of his choice. “Not bad,” she says finally, “they often lose their minds the first time. Then you can hardly get any use out of them.” The shopkeeper finishes fastening the necklace, and steps away, waiting dutifully beside the counter for his next command. Bellatrix saunters toward Regulus and continues in a low, playful whisper, “Though you could’ve just killed him, you know. He’s only a  _ muggle _ .”

Though his insides roil with self-doubt, Regulus’ voice comes out as deadpan and confident as ever. “But then you couldn’t get more necklaces from him in the future.”

Bellatrix cocks her head, and for a moment, Regulus thinks he’s gotten away with it. “How forward-thinking of you,” she says. And with that, she whirls around, thrusts her wand in the shopkeeper’s direction, and casts a killing curse squarely between his eyes.

Simple as that.

(And so what, if, that evening, Regulus ends up needing a double dose of dreamless sleep potion just to make his mind a little less frantic and his bed feel moderately more comfortable than a patch of stinging nettles? And if Regulus spends the better part of a week afterward vomiting up his insides at a moment’s notice, well, that’s a private matter).

It’s not like he never expected killing to be part of the equation— of course he’d heard the whispers, and seen the frantic  _ Prophet _ articles. But he hadn’t foreseen the culture around it; while the Dark Lord may not encourage Bellatrix’s gleeful bloodlust, he certainly doesn’t condemn it, seeming to view even his most brutal followers as akin to children getting a little too excited over their chocolate frogs. When Regulus’ apparent lack of enthusiasm toward civilian casualties becomes known among the Death Eater ranks, it’s  _ him _ who receives a direct address from the Dark Lord himself. “ _ Reticence is a wise trait, young Black. But we must remember that power always comes from somewhere. _ ” It feels like a warning.

In December, one of Regulus’ third cousins raises a hand after receiving orders and asks, meekly, if it’s truly necessary to kill every single person in the suspected safe house he’s supposed to raid. A week later, a young man who Regulus recognizes as having been a year ahead of him in school goes as far as announcing his departure from the Dark Lord’s ranks, pledging to never go to the ministry with any information he has been privy to. Both are dead by January.

Disappearances like that become common as the movement grows in size and ferocity. But every hole in the Dark Lord’s ranks created when a trembling half-blood turns up dead in their own living room is quickly filled by another, hungrier young wizard, while all the others pretend there was never any hole in the first place. Smooth. Simple.

Beautiful.

**< ><><>**

If there’s anything Blacks are unanimously good at, it’s funerals.

The Black family crypt is made up of an entirely self-contained network of underground tunnels, accessible only by portkey— Regulus doesn’t even know which part of England it lies beneath, or, for that matter, whether it’s in England at all. The layout is almost mazelike, with long corridors lined with seemingly countless archways made of ornately carved stone. Beyond each archway is a small room containing a casket shielded behind velvet curtains, a painting of the deceased in their prime, and a glass display case holding their wand on a thin cushion. Regulus remembers his father once taking him and Sirius on a walk down one of those tunnels when they were young, pointing out the final resting places of notable Blacks along the way. At one point, Sirius had pulled him into one of the rooms, and he’d stood, transfixed, before the painted face of a stern-looking man with high cheekbones and thick eyebrows while Sirius asked, in the shrill but unflinching voice of a child, what he did when he was alive. Regulus doesn’t remember exactly what the man had said— something about influencing muggle leaders to keep the family out of the witch trials— but he  _ does _ remember the cadence of it being almost mechanical, like someone reading a eulogy with the pronouns switched rather than telling a personal story.

The crypt is not only an impressive feat of architecture, but of magic as well— though the bunker-like enclosure, as far as Regulus can tell, exists completely cut off from the world aboveground, it never seems to run out of air to fuel both its visitors and the candles in the sconces and chandeliers dotting the walls and ceilings. Indeed, the whole place feels imbued with a type of magic more old and powerful than Regulus can even begin to fathom, and so potent that he can feel it tingling down his spine when he so much as touches one of the walls. While impressive, it also gives the tunnels an inescapably eerie quality; as a child, Regulus remembers once having a nightmare about getting lost in one of them and watching the surrounding candles snuff themselves out one by one until the entire world seemed to go completely black.

Now, however, the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black are is wandering through the corridors, but congregated in the large chamber at the heart of them, milling about among the array of smooth stone pillars holding up the arched ceiling and taking small sips of expensive wine out of glasses embossed with the family crest. Occasionally, one or two of them will pause momentarily to lay a respectful hand on the large wooden casket serving as a centerpiece to the room, before melding back into the rest of the crowd as if part of a complicated dance number. Grief must be in fashion, as everyone looks smart in their pitch-black gowns and dress robes, to the point that Regulus catches himself wondering just how many distant cousins are only in attendance because it gives them an excuse to purchase new dress shoes. Then again, Blacks have always been a rather grim-looking bunch; Regulus himself has hardly differed from his normal attire for the occasion, with the only change being a black collared shirt under his dress robes in place of a white one. 

Walburga looks perhaps the most fashionably grim of them all, complete with a veil of thick, black lace draped over her head and shoulders, hanging down nearly to her waist. The sight of it reminds Regulus of seeing an aunt of his wear a similar one at her own husband’s funeral when he was a kid, and he remembers how Sirius had leaned over to him after her speech and whispered  _ “What do you reckon that veil’s hiding, hm? Tears, or the lack thereof?” _ Were Sirius there today, he’d probably express a similar sentiment toward his mother.

But of course, Sirius isn’t there, because Sirius doesn’t exist. For a moment, Regulus almost wishes he were, if only to hear whatever “speech” he bothered to put together.  _ Happy Death Day to the guy who watched me grow up. Can’t say he did much else, but they say it’s the thought that counts. _ If anything, it would’ve spiced things up a bit.

Regulus’ own speech is quite beautiful— something about strength and loyalty culminating in a nice metaphor about pine trees. Like many beautiful things, it’s also full of lies. But the audience seems to buy it, or at least pretends to. Regulus watches it as if in third person, and still feels oddly disconnected from himself as he floats among the near-identical clusters of extended family members, accepting their polite murmurs of condolence with practiced nods.

At some point, his third cousin (give or take a few) approaches behind a column and grazes his arm with shiny black fingernails, her painted lips upturned in a suggestive reminder that, with the death of his father, Regulus has just become Wizarding Britain’s most eligible bachelor. Ignoring his roiling insides, he flashes a polite smile and thanks her for her condolences before excusing himself to the drinks table, where he pretends to pour wine into his already full glass and imagines just how long Sirius would’ve lasted at this event before stealing one of the portkeys and running off to Merlin knows where.

Once the appropriate duration of public mourning has passed, and everyone has disappeared back to their various manors and country houses, Regulus and Walburga stay behind to see Orion off to his final resting place. The room is already made up for him, complete with his name carved over the door and his wand and portrait put in their rightful places. Regulus looks on with solemn eyes as Walburga levitates the casket into its allotted tomb and closes the lid over it. For just a moment, they both stand there, staring down at the smooth stone, thinking either everything at once or nothing at all, before sliding the curtain closed in front of it, grabbing onto the small silver ring that serves as their portkey, and disappearing without a second glance.

They land in the drawing room, facing the large tapestry depicting their family tree. Almost immediately, Walburga takes off her veil and drapes it over a nearby armchair while rolling her neck in a slow circle to expel any stiffness. Regulus notices that she’s been wearing a full face of makeup underneath, which strikes him as rather pointless, but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he gazes up at the tapestry before him, his wandering eyes tracing the familiar curves and forks of its many branches.

As kids, Regulus and Sirius would spend hours staring up at this tapestry, eyes wide with wonder at the vast web of interconnected threads that made up their lineage. At that age, before coming to a full understanding of just how heavily legacy could weigh on one’s shoulders, they’d found it inspiring to identify the many generations of greatness supposedly running through their veins. Most of the names spelled out in the careful stitching carry stories behind them, which Regulus and Sirius had learned by poring over the leather-bound book of family obituaries displayed in one of the cabinets beside the mantelpiece, and would sometimes repeat back to each other as they read the accompanying names. “ _ That’s our great great grandfather Phineas Nigellus,”  _ Regulus would point out, “ _ Hogwarts’ last headmaster to recognize the importance of Slytherins. And there’s Lyra Black, whose book classifying five hundred different poisons is still used in potions curriculum today.”  _ As he continues to stare up at the ornate embroidery, he finds his thoughts drifting to one specific instance of their youthful pondering. 

_It’s a sunny summer day, bringing a stuffy sort of heat that’s not too common in London, and Sirius and Regulus have both escaped the onset of sunburn in the garden to lie flat against the cool hardwood floor before the tapestry that has so long captivated them. Sirius, aged maybe twelve or thirteen, looks tall and slender_ _after a recent growth spurt, with the last few scraps of baby fat in his face beginning to melt away to reveal the sharp, stately jawline underneath. Normally, Regulus would feel hopelessly small and awkward beside him, but something about the heat and the cool firmness of the floor against his head makes such insecurities seem far too trivial and tiring to bother with at the moment._

_ The names have become almost poetry to them, with an order and rhythm worn in after countless repetitions. As Regulus reads them, Sirius’ eyes flutter closed, but his lips continue to mouth along with every name, like lyrics to a song he knows by heart. “Leopold Black, 1598 to 1665… Am _ _ é _ _ lie Black, 1607 to 1679... Eridanus Black, 1629 to 1703...” _

_ Suddenly, Sirius’ eyes snap open, and his sharp voice cuts through what’s meant to be the comfortable breath of silence between one name and the next, severing the rhythmic spell of the words. “What do you think his favorite color was?” _

_ Regulus blinks, somewhat disoriented by the interruption. “Who?” _

_ “Eridanus Black,” Sirius replies matter-of-factly, as if it should’ve been obvious, “Or his favorite food? His best spell?” He rolls over to face Regulus, propping himself up on one elbow. _

_ Feeling oddy scrutinized under his brother’s inquisitive gaze, Regulus gives a vague shrug, hoping Sirius will lose interest so they can go back to reading the tapestry as usual. “I doubt they put that in the obituaries.” _

_ To Regulus’ relief, Sirius does turn back to the tapestry. But after a brief moment of pondering, he begins probing again, refusing to let the conversation drop. “Why is that, do you think?” _

_ Regulus’ spine presses uncomfortably against the floor as he lets out a laugh that turns out to be more of a scoff. “Well, it would be rather silly, wouldn’t it? I mean, it’s trivial information.” _

_ “Is it?” _

The sudden memory still fresh in his mind, Regulus lets his eyes drift away from the tapestry and toward his mother, who is now lounging on a settee beside the fireplace, staring much more intently at a nearby cabinet than any of the trinkets inside it seem to warrant. He clears his throat. “Shall I leave you to mourn in peace, mother?”

Walburga’s head is slow to swivel towards him, and she seems almost dazed, as if she’d forgotten he was there at all. Still, when she speaks, her voice is oddly lackadaisical, as if she’s just come home from a mundane tea party rather than her husband’s funeral. “Your father died a great man,” she says with an elegant shrug, “A levelheaded leader who proudly carried this family’s legacy through prosperous times. What is there to mourn?”

Regulus ponders this for a moment, glancing back at the tapestry. “When future generations of Blacks look up at this wall and ask their parents who Orion Black was, is that what they’ll say?”

Walburga, too, turns her attention to the familiar web of names and dates, and her eyes linger on the more recent portion, where Orion’s name remains as consistent as ever in its delicate gold stitching.  _ Orion Black, 1929 - 1979 _ . 

When she finally replies, it’s with a swift nod, her eyes still glued to the tapestry. “I trust they’ll say the same about you.”

Regulus picks out his own name, where the dash following his birth year points into the empty space of a story yet to be discovered. “Indeed.”

**< ><><>**

In retrospect, it seems rather silly that it’s Kreacher, of all things, that eventually does it. Regulus has always been taught to see house elves as property— his mother used their heads as  _ decoration _ , for Merlin’s sake. It only makes sense that the Dark Lord would share the callous disregard for them that most wizards fall into without a second thought.

And Regulus really isn’t that different— he’s always been  _ polite _ to Kreacher (which, granted, is quite a bit more than many other wizards) but never truly puts much thought into his well being. When Voldemort requests a house-elf, Regulus jumps at the opportunity, still eager for a chance to move further into the inner circles occupied by many of his relatives. He doesn’t even think to consider possible risks, or ask for Kreacher’s opinion on the matter.

But there’s something about him, weak and shaking and sopping wet when he apparates into Regulus’ bedroom at nearly two in the morning, that lights a sort of rage in his chest, and suddenly it’s not just about house-elf mistreatment. Suddenly, it’s about that muggle shopkeeper, and the titter of Bellatrix’s cruel laugh. It’s about the spot on the small of his back that Walburga used to prod her wand into to fix his posture. It’s about Orion, not so different dead as he was alive, and about Sirius’ name burned out of that tapestry and Eridanus Black’s collecting dust a few branches before it, beautifully embroidered but ultimately empty and lifeless, boiled down to a line in the absentminded chant of two bored children aware only vaguely of some semblance of its past greatness. 

Suddenly, he’s spending entire nights wide awake and motionless, staring at that hideous collage on his bedroom wall. He thinks back to his younger self, imagining a nonexistent promise in those cold sneers. Finding handsomeness in that waxy skin and solace in the intimidation it commands. Already drunk on power before ever even having it.  _ “Regulus,”  _ Walburga had said once, a few glasses of wine into a dinner party,  _ “is the type of boy who will make something of himself.” _ It’s only now, Regulus thinks, that he realizes what she really meant— Regulus is the type of boy who has something made  _ of  _ him.

**< ><><>**

There are a million places Regulus should be, and none of them are here, standing on the dingy landing outside a flat in muggle London. The door in front of him is smooth and white, its paint chipping around the edges of a simple brass handle with a faux gold coating. It’s almost remarkable in its pedestrianism, especially in comparison to the heavy mahogany one he used to find his brother behind.

The doorbell beside it looks equally plain, surrounded by a brass plate in clear need of polishing— another stark contrast to the snake-shaped knocker that greets guests to Grimmauld Place with fangs bared. Nonetheless, Regulus gingerly reaches out a finger and gives it a quick press.

Though he’s far from well-versed in modern muggle technology, Regulus is fairly sure the bell’s ring is supposed to be audible from his side of the door, especially in what must be a fairly small flat, judging from the size of the building. He also doesn’t hear any approaching footsteps, meaning there’s either some sort of muffling charm on the walls, or the bell doesn’t work. Attempting to account for the latter possibility, Regulus is just raising a hand to knock when the door swings open.

Despite the war going on, Sirius looks infuriatingly good. The maroon color of his loose-fitting shirt brings out warmer tones in his otherwise pale skin, and there’s method to the madness of his thick, lustrous hair. He stands in the doorway with an air of casual nobility befitting the position he once held, with one hand resting on the doorknob and the other curled around a simple but elegant black coffee mug, and there’s a question in his eyes—  _ what are you doing here?—  _ that Regulus nearly answers aloud.  _ Because I’m starting to think you’re the only person who’s ever loved me _ . But he doesn’t, because he’s not even sure if it would be true.

Regulus has to force himself to swallow the self-consciousness that arises as Sirius’ gaze flicks up and down his body. He’s far from his usual state of orderliness; he’s gotten thinner in recent months, and frequent lack of sleep has begun to manifest physically in dark circles and slow reaction times. Only a few days previously, Regulus had run a hand through his abnormally messy hair in the bathroom mirror and realized, with an almost manic laugh, that he’d never looked more like his brother in his life.

And as Sirius’ eyes continue to linger, Regulus knows he’s probably noticing the less tangible pieces as well, the little threads unraveling from the edges of his psyche that not even Regulus himself can seem to precisely locate. In recent months, everything has begun to feel oddly detached, as if he’s a third party in his own life, wandering through it in a dreamlike state instead of exercising real control over the events. Even in life-or-death situations— of which there are a considerable amount— Regulus feels as if he’s walking on air, with stakes just as low as those surrounding his options of what to have for dinner. Sometimes, he’s startled by his own _voice_ , with its clipped, matter-of-fact qualities divorced from his inner turmoil to the point of seeming alien.

“I would say you looked well, but that would be a lie,” Sirius remarks, but his tone lacks the flippancy the words attempt to convey. When Regulus doesn’t react, Sirius lets out a short huff, halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “Not that  _ you’ve  _ ever been good at detecting them.”

Regulus forces a wry smile. “Is that how you greet  _ all _ your guests, brother?”

Most wizards, if not outright scared, would be at least somewhat apprehensive about a Death Eater showing up on their doorstep, much less one that happened to belong to one of the most powerful families in Europe. Typically, Regulus uses that discomfort to his advantage; people are generally much more compliant when they’re not quite sure whether you intend to kill them during the encounter. Sirius, however, maintains a frustrating level of ease with the situation— or at least a convincing facade of it— and remains firmly but casually planted in the doorway. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows a slow sip of coffee. “‘Guest’ is a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

Regulus supposes he should have expected this. After all, the careful hierarchy of blood politics, which Regulus has spent his entire life in service of, has never had much of a hold on Sirius. But, then again, as much as both brothers would like to deny it, fear isn’t the only possible connection in this case. 

Banishing any thought of apparating away to preserve his dignity, Regulus meets Sirius’ gaze with all the cool, unphased determination he’s been taught to exude. “I suppose that’s up to you.”

Sirius looks him over again, and at first, Regulus expects him to turn away and slam the door shut at any moment. But his gaze continues to linger on Regulus’ slight frame and chokingly tight collar, and eventually he sighs and steps aside, muttering something about how he’ll have to switch flats after this either way.

Regulus steps forward into a small entryway furnished only with a large, wooden shoe rack, which he, in an admittedly childish attempt to maintain some semblance of authority, neglects to make use of. To the left, a wide, open doorway reveals a small living room. Despite no longer holding the status of an old-money pureblood, Sirius appears to have kept the aesthetics of one, as the furniture in said living room features all of the elegant curves and fine craftsmanship befitting his childhood home. However, instead of the muted gray or purple tones that would be found in Grimmauld Place, the upholstery on the matching sofa and chairs, as well as the curtains drawn over a large window, is the deep, rich red of a proud Gryffindor. 

Regulus enters confidently, with the straight-backed posture and even pattern of footsteps that becomes second nature to members of his class, yet still feels somehow  _ off _ , like a child clomping around in his father’s dress shoes. If Sirius notices, he doesn’t comment on it— indeed, both brothers spend several moments in a tense silence as Regulus continues to survey the living room. Without a house-elf tending it, it’s a bit more cluttered than Orion or Walburga would have ever stood for— there are quite a few books missing from the bookcase in the corner, some of which appear to be haphazardly stacked on the coffee table, and a fuzzy-looking blanket lies in an ungraceful heap on one end of the couch, as if someone has recently spent an afternoon curled up under it.

It’s Sirius who finally breaks the silence as he follows Regulus into the living room. “How’d you find me?” The question sounds casual enough, but Regulus knows he must be at least somewhat invested in its answer— non-supporters aren’t typically very keen on the Dark Lord knowing their whereabouts.

In all honesty, it had been an annoyingly difficult process. Regulus had had a significant advantage in being fortunate enough to remember the name of the muggle cafe Sirius used to run off to when the atmosphere of Grimmauld Place got particularly tense, but he still had to slip Veritaserum to three different baristas before finding one who had once spent a night with Sirius after going out for drinks. But Sirius didn’t have to know that— if there’s anything Regulus had learned among the Dark Lord’s shadowy ranks, it was the power of withholding information. He forces an offhanded shrug, not bothering to turn back toward his brother. “You’re rather conspicuous.” 

Knowing he can’t afford to glance back and gauge Sirius’ reaction, Regulus makes his way over to the fireplace with steps just a little bit faster than the flawless rhythm they usually carry. He glides his fingertips through the thin layer of dust on the mantel, letting his gaze drift along the disorderly row of photographs and trinkets. After traveling across two candles, a picture of Remus Lupin looking incredibly annoyed at the garish Christmas sweater he clearly didn’t choose to be wearing, and an assortment of porcelain dogs, his eyes land on a framed photograph of Sirius with James Potter. They look a few years younger, and are both wearing their school robes, though the door they stand in front of is not a part of Hogwarts. Of course, Regulus doesn’t even need the process of elimination to know that that door belongs to the Potter house— it’s already evident in Sirius’s easy smile and the healthy warmth to his skin.

The boys are laughing, and, as Regulus watches, James throws an arm around Sirius’ shoulders and whispers something in his ear, which sends them both doubling over in giggles all over again. The red and gold hues of their ties appear especially bright in the sunlight, and that brightness only seems to grow the longer Regulus stares at the image. At a certain point, it begins to  _ hurt _ , though he isn’t quite sure why. 

He’s still watching the photograph when he finally speaks. “Do you believe in fate, brother?”

Even to himself, his voice sounds ever-so-slightly off-kilter. Though he still uses the well-practiced enunciation, with its long vowels and short, harsh consonants, perfected in years of private lessons that not even Sirius has been able to fully shake, there’s a hint of something else starting to come through from underneath. He clenches his jaw, hoping to quell the strange apprehension welling up in his throat as he hears the dull thump of Sirius’ mug sliding down onto an end table.

“I spent my entire childhood being told what my future would be,” he replies after a moment, “and look how that played out.”

Regulus turns around, suddenly fed up with caring that Sirius might see the desperation in his eyes. “But  _ did _ it just ‘play out?’ Or did  _ you _ make it that way?”

“If you wanted something sagely and quotable, you should’ve gone to Remus,” Sirius counters, running a thoughtful hand through his hair, “but… I definitely knew what I was doing, when I agreed to sit with James on the train.” His hands slide into his pockets, and for a moment he looks almost sad, as if mourning something that never existed in the first place. “We’ve both made choices, Reg.”

Regulus ponders this, realizing that it’s the first conversation he’s had in years that doesn’t feel like it has a preordained ending. “I don’t think I’ve ever made a choice in my life,” he says after a moment, and it’s true.

Sirius shrugs. “That’s a choice in itself.” He stares vaguely at the corner of the mantel as he says it, deep in thought, but soon afterward his gaze drifts back up to meet Regulus’. Something else has joined the hint of melancholy in his expression, something cold and sharp and somewhat unsettling. “You’re not a victim of circumstance,” he says after a moment, and it’s only after hearing the bitterness in his tone that Regulus realizes the mystery expression as one of anger.

Hurriedly swallowing the irrational sense of shame rising in his chest, Regulus turns away in feigned nonchalance. “I know,” he says coldly, “In order to be a victim, I’d have to be discontent with my situation.”

Sirius lets out a quick, bitter exhale, and Regulus clenches his jaw, awaiting a biting retort. But the only sound that comes is that of porcelain sliding against wood as Sirius retrieves his coffee from the end table. When he does speak, the anger has drained from his voice, as has any tenderness that arose during his answers to Regulus’ questions. “I should be reporting this to the Order, you know,” he says, but the words sound dull and empty— clearly more a defense mechanism than a genuine threat. 

For just a moment, Regulus glances back towards the mantle, where Sirius and James remain eternally content in their own little world. “That won’t be necessary,” he says in a similarly matter-of-fact tone. “Goodbye, Sirius.”

He apparates away before he can hear the reply.

**< ><><>**

Blacks, it seems, promote a false equivalency between beauty and grandeur.

Despite a childhood rich with looming mansions and stuffy, over-decorated drawing rooms, Regulus never truly recognizes this until he’s standing on a rocky little island where the Dark Lord keeps a piece of his soul. 

From what he can see, the surrounding cavern is most certainly grand. Even from what he assumes to be the center of it, he can’t quite make out any of the walls at its edges, nor can he even begin to gauge the height of the ceiling. The surface of the lake surrounding the little island is impeccably glassy and smooth, so much so that, when Regulus kneels over its edge, he can see his own face reflected back at him, backlit with the eerie green light emanating from the potion waiting at the island’s center.

But none of it is beautiful. In order for something to be beautiful, it must be pleasing, or at least stirring in a somewhat positive way. This cave is anything but. Standing under the hefty weight of the darkness within it, the only feeling that arises in the pit of one’s stomach is cold, heavy dread. Contrary to Regulus’ unconscious assumptions, it seems, something can most certainly be grand without being beautiful.

He spends a few more moments watching his reflection in the water. He’s well-dressed for the occasion, with his finest black traveling cloak draped across his shoulders, and his still-too-long hair smoothed back much more carefully than it has been in months. But something feels wrong about that— why bother being disingenuous to the bitter end? He’s just finished mussing his hair to let its loose waves drift freely into his eyes when Kreacher’s timid but insistent voice interrupts his thoughts. “Shall Kreacher begin, Master Regulus?”

He’s standing beside the stone pedestal in the center of the island, peering dubiously over the edge of the basin atop it. Regulus strides over quickly and pushes him away from the edge. “You are not to touch the potion unless to pour it into my mouth,” he orders.

Kreacher’s eyes grow wide, apparently having just now realized Regulus’ plan. “Master-“

Regulus cuts him off in the stern, no-nonsense tone that his status allows. “And once I have drunk it all, you are to take that locket at the bottom, replace it with this one-“ he fishes the duplicate locket, constructed based on Kreacher’s recollection, from his pocket “- take it back to Grimmauld Place, and destroy it. Do you understand?” When Kreacher doesn’t immediately respond, he thrusts the locket right up under his snout-like nose. “ _ Say it _ .”

Kreacher holds Regulus’ gaze with his beady eyes for a moment longer, as if hoping he’ll reconsider, but soon hangs his head in defeat. “Kreacher will do as Master Regulus requests.”

“You can’t tell anyone about this.” Regulus swallows hard and turns back to the basin to survey the strange green substance within. “Not even the Dark Lord himself. If mother asks, tell her I drowned myself. She’ll know what to do with that.”  _ Can’t have a coward for a son. _ Regulus wonders, vaguely, what tale she’ll spin— tragic wand malfunction? Some sort of twisted act of heroism? He lets out a short laugh at the thought. It’s almost poetic, how the signature Black obsession with keeping up appearances might just be what allows their favorite dark wizard to one day meet his downfall.

Regulus has never been one for humor, but suddenly, as he leans over that basin and imagines the coverup story of his own demise, he’s full of it. He laughs again, and for longer this time— long enough for Kreacher to shift disconcertedly and clear his throat. “Master, it isn’t too late to-”

“Oh, but it is, Kreacher,” Regulus counters in a tone far breezier than the situation warrants. This is the heaviest thing he’s ever done and he feels light as air— one last piece of irony in a life full of contradictions. Is this how Sirius felt in the first few seconds after his sorting? Or as he unpacked the suitcase he’d run away with into James Potter’s drawers? Is  _ this _ how it feels to choose?

Taking one last look at Kreacher, he lifts his wand and conjures the first cup that comes to mind, which just so happens to be one of the delicate wineglasses his parents used to bring out at parties, with the family crest carved into its base. Sirius used to find that detail ridiculously tacky, and for once, Regulus can’t help but agree. Before he can second guess himself, he takes the glass by its slender neck and plunges it into the glowing green depths before him. “To life,” he says, only half-joking, and takes a deep swig.

The potion feels somehow both hot and cold in his throat, like numb hands run under a hot faucet on a snowy morning. As he drinks more, the heat grows and spreads throughout his entire body, steadily increasing in intensity until, three glasses in, it feels like lava coursing through his veins, and he doubles over, fighting back the bile rising in his throat.

The wineglass suddenly feels like lead in his hand, and it seems to take all his strength just to drag it across the surface of the potion and lift the next glassful to his dry lips. He pours it down his throat all at once, almost choking on the thick stream of liquid, and as soon as he swallows it the pain becomes so great that red lines dart across his vision, forcing him to take the next glass blind.

After that one, his vision clears, and, for just a moment, he thinks he’s reached the eye of the storm. The pain fades— or perhaps he’s simply grown numb to it— and he’s able to take a few deep, ragged breaths in relief as he refills the glass. Once it’s sufficiently brimming with phosphorescent green liquid, he tilts his head up, preparing for another long gulp, and-

And realizes he’s no longer in the cave.

At first, everything seems unbearably bright. As his eyes adjust, he makes out a long glass case beside him, displaying an array of small, glittery objects that he soon realizes are watches. Familiar dread wells up in his stomach as he recognizes his surroundings— the muggle jewelry shop, which has occupied months worth of his nightmares, except instead of a cozy hole-in-the-wall storefront, it’s endless, with a maze of identical display cases stretching into the distance for as far as the eye can see, like the artificial infinity created in a room full of mirrors. But this is no optical illusion; regardless of how many times the display cases seem to repeat, there is only one Regulus, standing alone in the center of it all.

Alone, that is, but for the huddled form lying on the floor between two display cases a few feet away. Regulus doesn’t even have to approach to know what it is— the muggle shopkeeper, with blue lips and cold, dead eyes staring straight up into nothingness. In past versions of this dream, Regulus has tried to run away down one of the endless aisles of silver brooches, only to find that ashen face waiting for him around every turn.

But now, instead of attempting to escape, he wills himself to stand his ground over the body, though he can’t quite bear to meet its eyes. One of the buttons on the man’s shirt is sewn on with thread a few shades lighter than that of all the other ones, and Regulus wonders who mended it. A wife at home, perhaps? Or the man himself? Whoever it is, they’re free of the duty now.

His thoughts are interrupted by a tug at the sleeve of his robes, and Regulus looks down to find Kreacher standing beside him, his hands shaking as he offers up the freshly-filled wineglass that Regulus hadn’t realized he’d dropped. “M-master,” he croaks in a timid stutter, “you have to keep-”

Regulus snatches the wineglass with a swift, determined nod and pours the potion down his throat, hoping it will make the hallucination go away. When he lowers the glass, however, he’s still in the jewelry shop, with nothing appearing to have changed.

But just then, he hears a heavy sliding noise, and looks down to find that, to his horror, the muggle shopkeeper is no longer lying still in his death. Instead, he’s sitting up, his head and shoulders slumped forward like those of a rag doll. Regulus finds himself unable to move as that limp head slowly lifts up to reveal bloodshot eyes that are no longer cold and empty but alight with rage.  _ “You _ ,” the man hisses, his voice dry and raspy from disuse, “ _ Can’t you see what you’ve done?” _

Regulus backs away, his heart pounding. “I didn’t…” he gasps, “I tried to  _ spare  _ you, I-”

Even as he says it, he knows it’s a lie. The shopkeeper must, as well, because he’s on his feet now, lumbering toward him with heavy, uneven footsteps. Regulus backtracks a few more steps, only to feel the sharp corner of one of the display cases dig into the base of his spine. Startled, he trips over his feet and ends up falling hard against the carpeted floor, wincing at the impact on his tailbone.

Kreacher is beside him again, thrusting the wineglass toward his lips, but Regulus shakes his head. If the last glass brought the corpse to life, what will this one do? Give it wings? But Kreacher is insistent. “Master, I must… you told me…”

The shopkeeper continues his slow approach, glaring down at Regulus with an almost hungry gleam in his eyes. Regulus squeezes his eyes shut, hoping the vision might dissipate if he refuses to engage with it, and opens his mouth ever so slightly for Kreacher to pour the liquid in.

While the past mouthfuls had been mostly flavorless, this one carries the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Regulus gags, but manages to force it down. He can still hear the shopkeeper’s heavy footsteps growing ever nearer, and scrambles backward on the floor in an attempt to escape him.

Something thin and hard scrapes against his arm, and his eyes fly open to find a set of polished black fingernails pressing angry red crescents into his pale skin. It’s Bellatrix, kneeling beside him, wearing that same necklace she’d stolen from the jewelry shop with a twisted smile on her painted lips. “What a lucky boy you are, Reggie,” she croons, turning her head to gaze hungrily into the shopkeeper’s soulless eyes. “Not everyone gets second chances like this, you know. Come on, now, you know the spell.”

And suddenly Regulus has his wand out, and Bellatrix’s bony fingers are wrapped around his wrist, guiding it up to point squarely between the shopkeeper’s eyes. He’s stopped walking, now, and is simply standing over Regulus’ huddled form with his head cocked. Waiting.

Regulus doesn’t remember drinking the next glass of potion, but he feels it sliding down his throat at the same time his mother appears, standing beside the shopkeeper with her brow furrowed in a disapproving scowl. “Regulus, darling,” she says in the same brisk tone she used to use when critiquing his table manners, “I do find the killing a bit harsh myself, but are you really going to lose your composure like this over a  _ muggle _ ? It’s embarrassing.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he tastes the salt of tears in his mouth, which is quickly washed down with another gulp of potion. This time, the new addition is Orion, watching the scene from a distance with the same frown that had crossed his face when Sirius had tried to hang a Gryffindor banner in the foyer. The shopkeeper leans down toward Regulus, stinking of decay. Bellatrix’s fingers tighten on his wrist. “ _ Do it _ ,” she implores.

Regulus barely manages to swallow the next glass. He hears whimpering and thinks it might be coming from him, though it could also very well be Kreacher. He presses his lip together, trying to block out the stench of the rotting shopkeeper whose clammy-looking face draws ever nearer.

But then the features on that face begin to morph into something new. The gray hair grows darker and longer, and the wrinkles melt away into smooth, young skin. Before Regulus can really process what’s happening, it’s not the shopkeeper standing in front of him, but Sirius, his eyes wide and pleading. Walburga and Orion disappear, and now it’s just Sirius, Regulus, and the pale hand still wrapped around his wrist, which has grown larger and veinier, and-

_ “You know what you have to do, young Black,” _ an unmistakable voice murmurs in his ear. Regulus scrambles to his feet as he whips around and, sure enough, there he is, with the sinister gaze from those catlike eyes seeming to burrow deep into Regulus’ skin.  _ “Come, now,”  _ he urges,  _ “it does make for a poetic end, don’t you think?” _

Regulus turns back toward Sirius, who is now being restrained by two faceless Death Eaters holding his wrists. Despite the desperate look in his eyes, his jaw remains firmly clenched, resolute to the bitter end. Regulus tries to summon the well of anger that used to fill up in his stomach at the thought of Sirius, condemning his frustrating ability to break every rule in the book and come off scot-free while Regulus remains bogged down with all the moral ambiguities and contradictions of pureblood life. But the anger is gone, and his still-outstretched wand hand trembles as bile rises in his throat.

And then there’s Kreacher once again, holding out yet another glass of potion. “You’re so close, Master, please…”

Regulus nods weakly and forces it down, and suddenly it’s not Sirius standing before him, but himself, albeit in a much more put-together state than his current one. The other Regulus has his hair slicked back perfectly smooth, and his robes impeccably tailored to follow every curve and angle of his lithe figure. The Death Eaters disappear, leaving him free to take a few confident steps forward, his sharp features curving into a smirk. “Does this make it easier for you?” he asks mockingly.

The real Regulus lets his wand fall to his side.  _ Now _ he feels that anger he’d been searching for, and he lets it fuel him one last time, banishing any remaining fear from his eyes. “Actually,” he says calmly, matching the cold intensity in his double’s tone, “it does.” With that, he snatches the last glass out of Kreacher’s waiting hands and throws it back like a shot. It burns in his throat one final time before everything goes black.

His eyes flutter open just in time to see Kreacher lift a large, gold locket out of the empty basin, which is now a few feet away from where Regulus lies against the cold rock. Noticing his movement, Kreacher pauses, casting a reluctant glance in his direction, but Regulus waves him off. “Go,” he rasps, his tongue like sandpaper, “your work here is done.” With a loud crack, Kreacher apparates away, leaving Regulus alone in the oppressive stillness of the cave.

At first, the only light is from the tip of his wand, which still sits dutifully at his side. As the potion slowly refills itself in the basin, the island is flooded once again with eerie green light, but Regulus hardly notices it. His throat feels as if it’s on fire, and his muscles ache when he tries to move them, his whole body screaming for water.

Kreacher has warned him how this goes, and he saw a few of the bodies firsthand on the boat ride over. The water will be his death sentence. But Regulus made peace with that long before arriving in this cave, and feels nothing but dull exhaustion as he drags himself to the lake’s edge and dips his cupped hands into the black abyss below.

The hand that shoots out to claim him is just as skeletal and clammy as expected, though it still sends a chill up his spine. He notices, dully, that it happens to have grabbed onto his forearm directly over the ugly black mark tattooed onto it.  _ Ironic _ . Before he has a chance to laugh at this, however, the previously glassy surface of the water becomes a roiling mess of choppy waves and pale skin as hundreds of long-dead appendages clamber for fresh meat. The uneven rock of the island scrapes and tears at Regulus’ cloak as the Inferi pull him unceremoniously into their turbulent domain.

At first, it’s chaos— Regulus feels his wet robes twist and cling to his legs as water fills his still-open mouth. The Inferi swarm him like ants to a neglected slice of cake, their bony hands dragging him deeper and deeper into the cold depths until he sees nothing but darkness.

Then, Voldemort’s pale, waxy face appears before him, materializing out of the murky water. Regulus feels cold fingers on his skin, and looks down to find one of Voldemort’s spidery hands clutching his forearm, where the Dark Mark is as faded and lifeless as Regulus’ devotion to it. “You could’ve been so much, Regulus Black,” he hisses, and his raspy voice is echoed by others— by the screeches of Walburga, the low monotone of Orion, and the playful whispers of Bellatrix. “Yet you squander it all in a fruitless suicide mission.”

Regulus looks up and stares straight into his catlike eyes. “ _ My Lord _ ,” he says evenly, the title dripping with a sly sarcasm that could belong only to Sirius, “We are all born to die.” Voldemort’s smooth head clocks in surprise before dematerializing like a wisp of smoke, plunging Regulus back into dark solitude. 

Alone at last, he closes his eyes and fades out of this world just as easily and hopefully as he came into it.

**Author's Note:**

> Title stolen from the Hamilton song that gets stuck in my head every day  
> Anyway this is my first Harry Potter fic (and also my first fic in general in like 4 years), so thanks for reading! Oh also JK Rowling is a crusty transphobe and I do not support her actions. Over and out.


End file.
